Porcelain Dolls and Action Figures
by SiZodiac
Summary: America went on a play date with Bruce Wayne once every ten years. A blink of the eye to a long-lasting nation, but a lifetime to a fragile human child.


_Disclaimer: In no way do I own Hetalia-Axis Powers, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, or Justice League._

Title: **Porcelain Dolls and Action Figures**

Summary: _America went on a play date with Bruce Wayne once every ten years. A blink of the eye to a_ _long-lasting_ _nation, but a lifetime to a fragile human child. Minor flirty undertones, because Bruce was in love with Gotham City._

OMAKE after Author Notes.

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 **Porcelain Dolls and Action Figures**

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(8)

It started with gunshots.

The reason America was in Gotham City during that particular month of that particular year was due to the death of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Two of the most financially powerful of his people getting senselessly gunned down caused a domino effect that sent ripples of economy-related crisis across America's eastern borders. That would manifest in said nation personification in the form of a minor headache that would last for months, and a festering numbing pain over the knuckles of his left ring finger.

If human doctors get a chance to examine the American nation, they would diagnose it as a case of juvenile idiopathic arthritis. An autoimmune condition, the attack of self on self, a sign of a country's internal corruption. But all in all it was an inconsequential case of minor illness and nothing America couldn't handle. So he continued to bear the pain and talked to numerous financial experts as he was told like a good boy, all the while trying to keep track of the changes in the stock market.

With business bag in one hand and a rumpled off-the-rack suit on his back, nobody could fault America for being preoccupied going over boring statistics in his head during one lunch break as he wandered down the street on a gloomy overcast Gotham Monday. So rather suddenly, America felt the small fingers of a child tug on his empty left hand and found himself being pulled into a nondescript diner by the road. Two hundred dollars were shoved at him as the child lead the nation into a corner booth, nonverbally ordering him to sit.

"Pretend you are my brother," the child demanded, slipping into the seat on the opposite side. His face pale and delicate like an exquisite porcelain doll, eyes hard and mouth pressed into a flat line, watching the pedestrians on the sidewalk like a hawk through the wide window. Outside it started to rain. America realized that the child was Bruce Wayne, his little orphaned city prince.

"Are you hiding from someone?" America asked good naturally.

"No. Yes. I don't know, probably." Bruce muttered, picking up the menu to avoid the nation's curiosity. Bruce stayed silent as the waitress came and went, then came again with their lunch. America ate his large serving of burger and fries as he waited for the human child to elaborate.

"I ran away from the hospital." Bruce finally said, putting a tiny piece of pancake into his mouth. It caused America to choke on a swallow. The nation subsequently noticed the corners of gauze and bandages peaking out from underneath the long sleeve of the child's left forearm. Immediately America knew, and he felt his blood ran cold.

"What happened to you?" America asked softly, worried.

The kid scowled. "What happened to _you_?" Bruce countered, shooting a pointed look at the red swelling on America's own left hand.

America shifted uncomfortably. He probably deserved that. "It's nothing," the nation said, then decided to change the topic. "I'm Alfred by the way. What's your name?"

Bruce blinked at him, big cerulean eyes sparkling like crystalline glass. "Alfred? I know an Alfred."

"Really? That's pretty cool! What's he like?" America grinned. The kid didn't give his name, but that was fine.

"He's okay, I guess." Bruce played with his food, "but I don't like him."

"Well, why not?"

"He burns every dish he touched, and knows more about guns than children." Bruce said, then his expression crumbled. "Because he is supposed to be my bodyguard, my family's bodyguard. If he could fuck even that up, then how in hell am I supposed to trust him to take care of me?" Bruce stabbed his pancake with the fork, angry tears started to fall[1].

America might have panicked upon seeing those tears. "Hey, hey, don't cry." The nation soothed, before coming up with a great idea. He picked up his business bag, pushing boring government paperwork aside to pulled out a pile of comic books. Action Comics, Detective Comics[2], Gray Ghost, Captain America, and Iron Man. All his favorites.

"These are my treasures," America said, holding them up to the boy. "Are there any ones you like?"

Bruce hiccuped, drying his tears with a napkin. His eyes were still red and wet. "I... I like Gray Ghost."

America put the rest away, then moved to sit next to the small child. "Then let's read this together, is that okay?"

Bruce sniffed, then nodded, almost shy.

So together they read, with rain falling softly in the background singing its melody. America received a few messages and calls from his handlers that he promptly ignored, skipping tedious meetings that solved nothing was totally worth it if he could bring a sad innocent child a reason to smile. They had an enjoyable time in each other's company for a few short hours and all too soon, noon turned into late afternoon and downpour turned to drizzle. It was time to send the child home.

America paid with the two hundred dollars and left the rest as tip, then packed up his belongings and held out a hand. His left hand, carefully holding on to Bruce's right, as they made their way down the busy streets. When they arrived at the nearest police station, there was a young man in early thirties yelling at officers with fists clenched hard by his sides. The man was British and obviously military, with clothes drenched wet as evidence of having been out searching in the rain.

"Alfred!" Bruce called, waving at the man, because of course his legal guardian would be here. Subconscious homing ability was after all innate to country personifications, even though America was surprised the man was not one of his. Bruce let go of the nation's hand, but there was still a question America wanted to ask.

"Why did you choose me?" America called after the boy's retreating form. Bruce turned back around, a tiny smile on his lips.

"Because you looked familiar."

For a child, that was enough.

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(18)

There had been an absurdly high rate of incidents taking place in the Gotham Courthouse for as long as America cared to remember, from political frauds to mob hits to personal vendetta. It was something the nation had long learned to live with and endure.

Thus it was an honest to god coincidence that America happened to be at the scene—he was in Washington DC a mere half an hour ago, had in fact just left the local McDonald's with his regular purchase of burgers and a large vanilla milkshake still in hand—when he found himself suddenly standing on a sidewalk in Gotham City, to witness the sound of a handgun going off. A body slumped over the staircase leading up to the courthouse entrance, eyes wide in shock and unmoving, blood staining the polished stone underneath. There was panicked screams overlaying the distant wail of police sirens, and so many journalists swarming the scene, but among the chaos there was an odd sense of quiet irregularity.

Inexplicably, America's attention was drawn toward the eye of the storm. A lone teenager standing still as a statue, hidden under the protective shadow of a building some distance away, staring emotionlessly at the commotion in front of the courthouse.

The teenager was Bruce Wayne, and today was the day his parents' murderer would be released on parole in exchange for testimony against a local crime boss. America had a bad feeling about this. He glanced uncertainly at the dead body, then pushed his way through the crowd attempting to get to the young teen, but Bruce had already vanished among the people when he got there. It didn't really matter fortunately, since America never had too much trouble locating one of his own when he absolutely needed to, so he picked a random direction that gave him a really good feeling and started to walk.

A couple hours later, personification instinct took the young nation to the docks where there were scarcely any people as the day grew late into the afternoon. America was finishing up his third cheeseburger when he saw the young American prince charming a short distance away gazing out to the sea. He had grown up so much in the past years, now stood almost as tall as America himself, his soft baby-ish features finally giving way to lean muscles and sharp cheekbones, but with a darkness in his eyes as if he hadn't slept in days. America gulped down the last mouthful of burger meat before ducking behind a crate, inwardly he debated with himself whether to confront or to just observe from afar. Though unlikely, there was still a slim chance Bruce would remember him from before.

"Why are you following me."

That statement was an unexpected surprise, but the teen didn't turn around. So America hesitated, opted to remain hidden. What the teen did next shocked America into action however, when he suddenly produced a handgun and pointed it at his own temple.

America was there in an instant, his free hand gripping the foolish child's wrist and forcing the gunpoint away. Their eyes met. There was a split second pause, and America briefly wondered if Bruce recognized him from a decade-old childhood dream.

"Let go."

"Only if you give me the gun," America replied, adjusting the paper bag in his right arm to a better angle against his upper torso, his left hand still gripping the younger boy tightly. "I can't trust you with it when you're like this. It's too dangerous."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "Fine, _mom_." He relented, handing over the small pistol. America put it in the holster at the back of his jeans next to his own Glock. He had a sneaky suspicion that Bruce didn't have a legal license to possess such a weapon, but he wasn't an officer so he guess he could let this slide.

Bruce was still staring at him when he looked up, and the oppressing silence was getting as ungainly as it was unbearable. He didn't ask America for identification, but America did not know whether that meant Bruce recognize him or not.

"Um," America shifted his arms again, the iced milkshake was getting the contents wet and it was quite uncomfortable carrying the bag. He dug for a red cardboard box that he was originally saving for last. "Do you want some?" America asked, aiming for friendly. "You look like you're starving."

Bruce regarded the offered item with caution, holding onto the greasy box so carefully as though it contained some sort of volatile chemical. "What am I supposed to do with it?" The city prince looked genuinely puzzled.

"Eat it, of course!" America laughed, "It's Happy Meal, it'll make you happy!"

Bruce was doubtful. He picked up the burger and peeled back a corner of the wrapping paper, getting oil on his fingers, and took a small bite. The careful way he nibbled at the food made America laugh, but then again considering Bruce's upbringing, the boy was probably somewhat reluctant to be caught dead eating kiddy fast food. America ain't going to judge.

They walked along the pier in amicable silence, with the companionable quiet only broken by America's occasion slurping of milkshake between munching mouthfuls of meat and bread. The setting sun was exceptionally beautiful today, changing the sky from bright blue to yellows and oranges, and it felt almost like a date. Once all the burgers were gone, America gestured at the box still clutched in the young human's hands. A miniature figure was at the bottom, colorful in cape and striking an action pose.

"So, how was it?"

"It was okay," Bruce answered, examining the toy thoughtfully.

"I love eating burgers when feeling down," America announced. "Nothing cheers me up more than a serving of this all-American delicacy!"

Bruce let out a dry huff, shaking his head. "It is junk food."

"All the better!" America exclaimed, his enthusiasm contagious when his human friend finally cracked a smile. It was only a tiny twitch of lips, but it brightened up the boy's whole feature, so America counted it as a success.

"There is... " Bruce started to say. He paused, taking a breath to center himself before continuing, "I like Alfred now, he's really kind. He learned how to cook and sew for me. He would even bake me desserts if I asked nicely."

Alfred. The British man from ten years ago, who shared America's human name.

"I see." America coughed, suddenly feeling self-conscious as he scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "I guess that means you remembered."

Bruce nodded slowly. "I grew up, yet you stayed the same." He commented, like a detached observation. Then the human boy came closer, purposefully stepping into the nation's personal space, and for a second slipping his warm hand into America's, his touch featherlight. But there was no kiss on the cheek or a flirty goodbye. Any further inquiries were left to hang abandoned in the air, then the moment passed, and with it was the fading heat in America's left palm.

Turning with both hands securely in his pockets, Bruce walked away, the tail ends of the designer coat disappearing into the city alone as nightfall painted a veil of indigo over the deep crimson of sunset. He looked so very lonely.

America remained there for a while longer, until the luminous streetlights flickered to life. The gun he confiscated did not have any sign of ever being used, which was supposed to be a relief, but it had two bullets in the chamber[3]. That caused America's heart to clench hard in his chest, and the nation crushed the offending piece of metal in his hand.

Bruce Wayne left American soil before the next daybreak, he was eighteen then, and indirectly caused another economic shift in the city. The arthritis on America's left hand got worst, spreading to another finger joint. The nation lost track of his pretty city prince for many following years, and not for the first time America wondered whether he was the one dreaming a horribly delirious fantasy.

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(25-28)

Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham City in time to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday, and it seemed like a sign for change. Unfortunately for America he was half-way across the world on an important business tour that took him from Asia to Africa before finally ending in Europe during those months. To compensate, he watched his little prince on a portable TV set during one of his last oversea meetings when the topic of discussion turned to agriculture and grape farms. Bruce Wayne was now all grown-up dressed in bespoke suits and the finest designer silks, the sparkle of jewelry on studs and cufflinks and a single sapphire earring, and he addressed the press with an air of calculated bashfulness that strode the careful line between innocently adorable and shrewd.

"He is beautiful," France leaned over and offered a rare compliment, appreciatively eyeing the brunette human on the tiny screen, but there was a too-knowing glint in his gaze. "America's very own Marie Antoinette."

Austria glowered at them from across the table. America just frowned, pushing France away.

To America's immense disappointment, the older nation's words soon became a self-fulfilled prophecy... or curse[4]. Bruce Wayne wasted money on women and cars, squandering his fortune on buying random assets like hotels and theaters and lands, and his choice of investments for Wayne Enterprises—one of the largest and most wealthy company from America's house and around the world—seemed to be based completely on whims. Then the moment America turned his back due to some political distraction for a second, Bruce cancelled half their military contracts in the last stages of negotiation and went AWOL on a spontaneous ski trip to Switzerland. So when it all came down to it, Bruce's only positive contribution to society would be his diligent work in philanthropy, but all in all caused more headaches for America than it was worth.

"I told you." France said, patting America on the back as the young nation bemoaned the lost contracts and millions of dollars over whiskey bottles, drowning in sheer frustration. "People like those. Too pretty—easy to love—but without an ounce of good sense. They could ruin you."

America didn't know how to reply to that. The Wayne heir occupying his capitalism throne was living a life unreal as a fantasy made of soap bobbles, but reality was not a fairytale. He could console himself at least that his city prince was finally leading a happy life after so many years of sorrow, but he also dreaded the day guillotine blade would, too, drop on his precious little boy.

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Months turned to years, and America continued to watch from afar. Remarkably and impossibly, things gradually got better for both Gotham City and America as a whole, with his left hand now hurting slightly less than before. Bruce Wayne must'd have been born under a lucky star, as nearly all his seemingly random investments turned in a profit, helping both Gotham and Metropolis' economy along the way.

There were also hushed talks about a knight in black armor patrolling streets at night in the recent years, of vampires and bats, of a ghost story weeding out Gotham City's corruption little by little. An inhuman monster who seemed to be as enamored with the city's prince as America himself, a monster who also didn't want to see the young Wayne fall. But there were facts, and those were just wistful thinking.

England gave him a phone call one day inquiring about the local phantom, or phenomenon. America laughed, because ghosts weren't real, though the themed searchlight was a pretty awesome idea once he worked out the angle to serve as an unusual tourist attraction.

It wasn't long after that for news of the urban legend to reach government higher-ups at his house, and shortly after a stack of police documents with witness accounts and blurry photos arrived on the nation's desk. As the American personification read through the papers, suddenly he _knew_ , because how could he not know one of his own? How could America have forgotten the crying boy in the diner with his arm cut open and the angry teen outside the courthouse holding a gun with two bullets in the chamber? He remembered the allusion to guillotines and monarchs. Only now realizing the blade had already fallen, not as punishment for future years, but decades ago on a family forever cherished to set this stage. America's royal family.

The young nation thought about the superhero comics hidden within his desk drawer and put his head into his hands, then laughed hollowly at the harsh irony. His handlers would later ask America whether he know anything about the mysterious Bat-Vigilante. America would put on an award winning smile, then lie through his teeth.

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The nation personification was sent to conduct a business dealing in Gotham City with Wayne Enterprises later that month, proving that what his boss knew was either too much or way too little. Fate it seemed just work in very enigmatic ways.

As it turned out however, America didn't get to see Bruce Wayne at all during the business dealing that took three days, only a lot of old men and women and endless powerpoint. He felt like a foolish punchline for getting excited for something that ended up so boring, made worse by the fact that the whole thing dragged on and on, everyday from morning to evening.

By the time America was finally allowed back to his hotel room on the last night of his stay before returning to Washington DC, the sky was dark. It was almost nine and he hadn't eaten anything for twelve hours straight he felt like he could die of hunger, but before America could pull himself together enough to order something on the phone, there was a knock on the door and a voice informing him the arrival of preordered meal. America didn't question to let the service man in, because he was starving and there was so much food it seemed like a whole banquet.

America got busy stuffing his face with fried chicken and roasted beef. Halfway through the food, he noticed that the service man was still there, standing by the closed door.

It was Bruce. In glasses.

America stopped, mouth falling open before remembering to swallow. "Bruce?" He asked, almost unsure.

The man nodded but did not speak as he did a careful swipe of America's temporary room. He noted the WW2 bomber jacket in the closet, the cheap shirt and tie and underwear threw casually on the single bed, vintage comics in the opened travel bag, and the newest issues on the table along with financial reports and confidential government works. Bruce removed his nonprescription glasses before changing out those pristine white gloves for black leather, all the while taking care to leave no fingerprints. He was also wearing army boots, definitely not a part of the hotel service uniform.

"Bruce, I... Why are you here?" America asked again, bewildered.

Bruce tilted his head, leaving his position from the doorway and chose instead to sit on the bed right beside the window. His movements graceful as a feline and more dangerous than any predator. "There are some questions I need to ask you," Bruce stated calmly, his attention fixed unwaveringly on the nation personification as if he were pinning down a crime suspect.

America held his gaze, he had been expecting this. Though it wasn't often a human would figure out their true nature without being explicitly told, it wasn't unheard of either. Bruce Wayne was both smart and resourceful, and America had long ago decided that he would be completely truthful when the day came that Bruce demand for his answer. Yet what came next still caught America by surprise, because Bruce didn't inquire anything about his nationhood.

"You have abilities, limited precognition within this land, and you like..." Bruce struggled for a word, gesturing at the comics everywhere around the room. "... Good Samaritans in outlandish costumes."

"Heroes! Of course, I love them! They're awesome!" America beamed, grinning from ear to ear. "You're also pretty awes—"

Bruce held up a hand to cut him off, expression solemn and pained.

America paused. "What's wrong?"

Bruce took a steadying breath. "I need to know. Did you do this to me?" He asked, so quietly. An old toy figurine appeared in his hand from an inner pocket, colors dulled and paint chipped with age, a parting gift from a decade ago. He pointedly placed it on the bedside table, on top of the vintage comic titled Detective Comics #27 from the year 1939. "Did you do this to me, so that you could have a customized life-size action figure to your fancy?"

The question completely caught America off guard. His smile dropped from his face, for once rendered utterly speechless. America wanted to say no, he wasn't that cruel. He wanted to point out he hadn't personally pulled the trigger that resulted in two dead bodies pooling blood into the gutter. He never wanted senseless harm to come to his people. All his children, all precious.

But America also knew that it was his broken systems that slowly carved the wide chasm between the wealthy and the desperate within Gotham City's figurative walls. A cause and an effect that let corruption sank into his bones. And America was made acutely aware of the Glock handgun he still now carried on his person, more of a symbol for the status of his laws than a real need for self-protection.

America could not say no, so Bruce took it as that. "I used to think it was a coincidence, how they given the name. But... you actually _did_." A whisper, almost an accusation, but not quite. "Because you own me absolutely and completely, a _superhero_ puppet on a string."

"No, no. It's not... Please don't say it like that." America shook his head, horrified at the implication and misunderstanding. "We don't have that kind of power over anyone. You of all people should know that!"

Bruce didn't react, just kept looking at him with penetrating intensity. Suddenly he leaned forward to take the nation's left hand into his, a thumb gently caressing the reddened knuckles. Gotham City. America did not question how he knew.

"My father was a doctor. When I was little, I wanted to be one as well. To follow in his footsteps." Bruce said, voice so full of wonder, and then he made a promise.

"I'll fix this. I will."

Bruce Wayne might be physically older and stood taller than America did now, an adult of twenty-eight and a father of two, but in the dim lamplight he still looked so delicate and fragile like a pretty porcelain doll. And then he moved, the spell broken, letting go of the hand with a gentle brush of fingertips before disappearing out the window leaping down from twenty-stories high. The night sky lit with the shadow of a bat's wingspread, and the wind carrying with it the faint echo of such a childish vow. America's heart lifted, and maybe he was a little bit in love.

The toy figurine would go to his oldest house in Virginia, on a shelf with many old trinkets to become memories as part of his history.

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(38)

Reality was so much crueler than fairytales.

Wayne Manor was burned to the ground in a tragic fire, claiming a young life lost too soon. America walked among the charred bricks and stones in the sombre evening light, breathing in the scent of painful death and ash. He did not find his grieving city prince.

America returned once again to Gotham City two days later for an extremely late business meeting that would leave an even worse taste in his mouth, scheduled when night had long fallen and the moon had reached the zenith in the sky. With Falcone incarcerated and Maroni dead and Cobblepot buying his way through Blackgate Penitentiary's revolving door, there was a new player in town in the recent years that America had to begrudgingly greet biannually. So when the nation saw the smug look on the mobster's face after being lead through a hotel the man owned in the red-light district, America's expression promptly soured. Each time without fail, America felt Sionis was intentionally rubbing the nation's helplessness in his face, despite without explicitly understanding countries' true nature.

Halfway through their business meeting over expensive wine and cigar, with lots of money and deeds exchanging hands—reluctantly on America's part—Sionis received an urgent phone call and then immediately bolted out the door, abandoning all documents and monetary gains in his haste. America was thoroughly confused. Twenty seconds later, Sionis's lackey was thrown crashing through the mahogany door into the private chamber. Overhead lighting flickered ominously, and a solid shadow materialized from the depths of the dark hallway.

This was the first time America came face to face with the infamous Gotham Bat. For a second the nation's brain was paralyzed in shock, he stood halfway out of his seat, and his tongue tripped over caught between a gasp and a hello. "Br—um, huh, Sionis ran." America finished, sounding lame even to his own ears. He glanced at the body on the ground, unconscious and arm bent at an odd angle, but still breathing.

The human creature didn't reply. If the Bat felt the slightest stung of betrayal at finding America there in a mobster's lair, he didn't show it. He only walked over to the table in silent steps, hands moved to take pictures and collect all evidence on the dealings done in this room.

After four minutes, the Bat was done and made a motion to leave. That was when America decided that he did _not_ like the feeling of being completely ignored, especially since he had been worried sick for this man. He remedied that by gripping for the Bat's wrist, left hand on right, as he always did when the man were young and acting exceedingly foolish.

America had been expecting the sudden tense of shoulders and back, symptoms of someone too unused to the warmth of human contact. America had even been expecting violence—perhaps a punch threw at his nose or a kick in his guts—that he could easily subdue do to his above human strength and centuries of military experience. America had _not_ been expecting the Bat to take a wineglass on the table and flung it at his face.

The nation raised a hand to defend himself. Glass shattered, red wine splattered on his face and chest and hands. A thought rang, too vividly and filled with malice. _This is the blood on your hands_.

America let go as though burned. The Bat had known all along that America had a hand in helping his enemies. The proof was everywhere in the skewed system and law and corrupted politicians. He hadn't needed to catch the literal personification in on the act, nor would acknowledging a fact he had learned since childhood change anything. The Bat had known, and implacably America felt a deep disappointment in himself.

The nation took a step back in shame. "I'm sorry," he started to say, but there must'd been something on his face—something painful with regret—because this time the Bat followed, to kneel like a loyal knight from tragic fairytales. He then reached for the nation's left hand, in remembrance.

It had been ten years since that too naive promise. The swelling had gone down and the pain generally subsided, though the tingle of lingering redness was still there. Though the condition was significantly better, America knew it would never be fully healed, only just enough so that it would not cause a problem.

"My son died for this," the Bat said, his voice twisted into a harsh monotone by the modulator, devoid of all emotion. Then he lowered his head, planting a kiss on the still red fingertip. The kiss felt like benediction and failure and heartbreak.

Soft lips parted, a gravel hiss against sensitive skin. "I don't want to see you _ever_ again." And then the creature was gone, jagged leather wings vanishing through the window into the night like the ghastly echo of a faraway dream.

Not long after, convicted criminals started to drop dead in Blackgate Penitentiary from a mark left by the Bat, the timing too precise to be a coincidence. America probably should have checked up on him once the situation started to escalate and spread in the next few months, now with half a dozen prisons and holding cells affected, and illegal death sentences becoming an illness in the shape of a bat burned onto chests and shoulder blades. America thought of too many dead parents and too many dead children, and the kiss on his left hand that hurt with the heat of a searing brand.

America didn't go look for the Bat. It was probably because he was too afraid to look at his failure in the eyes.

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(44-46)

The Black Zero event caused a nasty gash to cut across America's left palm, deep to the bone and almost severing the middle finger. Metropolis. The wound would then lead to localized infection, and cellulitis would spread from finger to hand to wrist, because that was what would happen when the financial district of a major city was destroyed, with thousands of lives lost and more injured. The nation had traumatizing flashbacks to the September 11 attacks.

America was there in the city when the Black Zero spacecraft hovered over his bay. Or rather, he was dragged down from the sky in his F-15 Eagle fighter plane because the pull of the gravitational beams spared no one. He felt earthquakes being summoned, tearing through his body made of concrete and stone and land. On the other side of the Earth, India collapsed at his coast due to suffocation, knee deep in mud where there used to be water, unable to breathe in the deadly artificial gas created by the World Engine that was slowly altering the local atmosphere.

Thankfully the nightmare stopped almost as soon as it had begun. A team of brave men— _his soldiers_ —lead by Colonel Hardy saved the world, at the cost of their own lives. America shut his eyes as their voices winked out of existence and rubbed a hand over his face to dry the tears. He stayed down on the ground for a few extra minutes in the wreckage of a plane's skeleton to regain his balance, body feeling like lead and desperately hoping the ringing in his ears would stop. Then he picked himself up on unsteady feet, to help with evacuation and rescue. That was where they ran into each other again, the nation and his little city prince, surrounded by fallen debris near Metropolis ground zero. It had been six or seven years since and Bruce was there, standing across a broken street, physically older again with strips of gray in his hair. His expensive clothes ruined and face dirty with a layer of dust, a hand resting reassuringly on a little girl's shoulder to guide her to safety. They caught each other's eyes across the short distance of about a dozen yards away, before Bruce's sharp gaze darted wordlessly to America's bleeding left hand.

The sudden flare of blinding hot rage America sensed from the human almost caused the nation to stumble. Bruce had always been a frighteningly passionate and emotional individual, no matter how good the man was at hiding this aspect of himself from the rest of the world. America recalled again of the vow made from almost two decades ago, when Bruce was still young dancing to the threads of hope, when Bruce had held onto his hand and eyes shining with determined conviction.

 _I'll fix this. I will._

The hand that now hung limp by his side, bleeding and useless and completely ruined. America then remembered the red wine stain, on his hand also, like an ill omen.

 _My son died for this._

America closed his eyes. He had realized for some time now why his relationship with this particular—hero? vigilante? _criminal?_ —human of his was so devastatingly harmful, like sweet poison seeping into his veins. Because they only served as living reminders of failure and pain to each other, an invitation in disguise to leap into the abyss to drown. Even now after so many years of suffering, Bruce still clung to that childish promise like a lifeline, forever refusing to let go chasing after an impossible dream.

They didn't talk, that split second of a glance already did more than enough damage.

 _._

Life got hectic for America following the catastrophic event, international politics became even more complicated and America no longer had any luxurious extra time to spare. Because while other countries couldn't care less about America playing with colorful toys in his own sandbox, a physical god with enough power to kill nations who might or might not consider himself American was a different matter entirely. Now France and Greece were fighting in every meeting for ownership over a relic older than them both, while Egypt brushed up on his mother's legacy. Mexico demanded that America return her rightful inheritances currently held in his custody, at once and immediately. Canada in the background quietly lamented that he might have misplaced a person of interest. England only shrugged, claiming he at least still had his trusted black magic. Meanwhile Iceland vehemently refused to talk about his relationship with the sea.

Russia and China remained detached from these discussions, secretive as they devise plans of their own. Japan on the other hand was willing to cooperate as he approached America one evening, offering up a trade.

America thought of porcelain dolls and action figures and puppets on a string, being fought over by the world like properties[5].

Nobody talked about the fact that more than half of them stiffened, shaking scared, when a flash of red and blue showed up on national news. India laughed, twisting the green ring on his finger and asked for a ridiculous amount of money in exchange for useless dust particles he found on the ocean floor in front of his house, his injured arm still in a sling. A fortune made from fear and tragedy[6].

Kenya started to glare at America and Russia during conferences after the incident in Nairomi, her silent accusation weighed heavily on America's conscience. Russia didn't react and for once America likewise kept his head down to avoid eye contact, pretending to be ignorant of the drone missiles and let people shift the blame to the Superman[7].

The capitol bombing took everyone by surprise, and for the next few days—weeks? _months?_ —America reacted in a daze of confused anger. Things gradually and completely spiral out of control. He really should have checked up on Bruce when he still had the chance, but he didn't, because ultimately Bruce was just one human in a sea of millions, a single spark of rage so easily lost among too many others.

Now two years later, since the day alien death machine cut a large scar across his palm, America stood next to England as they solemnly observed the state funeral. England's posture stiff and back straight, eyes faraway with his hands clasped trembling at his side[8]. America just tried to not break down in undignified sobs as his people lowered the empty casket into the ground. Looking back, America wondered how much of it was his own fault for being so willfully ignorant.

America wasn't expecting Russia to be there for the procession ceremony though, standing out in black suit and tie, his signature beige scarf wrapped around his neck. "What are you doing in my house, Russia?" America hissed through clenched teeth.

Russia seemed a little sad, the expression out of character on his face, before attempting to put on a polite smile. "What are _you_ doing here, Amerika?" Russia asked instead, and at America's confused frown made a vague gesture at his chest. "I had thought you would follow your heart, to mourn in a more _private_ event."

England looked between them, puzzled. America paled at those words.

Kansas—Heartland—Russia _knew_ the civilian identity of Superman, but how? Then America remembered the Russian mercenary Knyazev, former FSB agent and the man in charge of all related kidnappings. Scenarios ran through America's head, each worse than the last and all involved the desecration of a great man's grave. If words got out about Superman's final resting place... ! America felt he was on the verge of panic thinking about all the horrible possibilities, when a calming hand gently touched his shoulder. Russia really did seem a little sad.

"Do not worry, Amerika." The Eastern European nation said quietly. "You are not the only one filled with regret."

Later that day after England had left, Russia accompanied America to Heroes Park in Metropolis, and they both lit candles in Superman's memory[9].

.

.

(47-48)

Things didn't get easier afterwards. The death of Superman was an ominous signal, and suddenly insect infestations became a serious problem in everyone's house all around the world. Nobody knew where those bugs come from, only that they were numerous and would rapidly multiply if not put down. Political leaders and nation representatives shouted over each other in meetings to make their voices heard, flinging insults and demanding compensations, with no solution forthcoming.

The situation at America's house was made even worse by the fact that several of his military bases were attacked by supposedly nonexistent magic. He was still suffering from blisters when Mexico got furious, accusing him for the mistreatment of her people and breaking her parents' important legacy. Australia complicated matters by suddenly wanting a certain burglar of his returned, despite being the one who got rid of him in the first place. America couldn't comply either way, because nanotech bomb implantation was still a confidential topic with questionable moral implications. In the meantime, panic was on the rise due to increase extraterrestrial activity awareness among mass populations, and nations working together seemed like a far-fetched impossibility.

America tried to not think about how everything seemed to tie inevitably back to his little city prince, who had gone missing these months following Superman's death. The little prince who as a knight had gifted him with so many unique individuals of immense potential wasted on villainy, and then in his absence handed America and his government the dangerous means to wield control over humanity's free will. America tried to not think about poisons in his veins and invisible brands on his hand, when the shadow of the cloaked demon once again whispered Pandora's promise into his mind[10]. Hope, forever elusive.

Ukraine was the one who got hit the worst, at one of her abandoned nuclear power-plants in the town of Chernobyl where her land was sick and population was few. Superman came back to life like a biblical miracle and with him was America's missing city prince, and this time they left behind not a disaster scar as before but a wondrous blessing.

Ukraine started wearing exotic flowers in her platinum blonde hair, health greatly improved due to flourishing tourism that helped her economy and a new area of expertise were expanded in extraterrestrial bioscience that focused on botany and mineralogy. France and Greece came to a mutually beneficial agreement, and there was soon going to be an exhibit planned for Louvre on Greek artifacts that were previously lost due to a group of international art smugglers recently thwarted. Iceland opened up about his long-kept secret, and together with Norway and Denmark discussed the feasibility of setting up an undersea embassy.

International relationships were still difficult and strained of course, but working together was perhaps not so improbable after all.

.

America was sitting in a Starbucks near his west coast apartment located in Seattle on a Tuesday, browsing the web for cat videos on his phone and enjoying free wi-fi before his early morning meeting, when Bruce Wayne approached his booth table.

"Is this seat taken?" The man asked, all charismatic smile and immaculate formfitting three-piece suit.

"Bruce!" America made a wild gesture, eyes shining in delight as he pushed his creamy coffee to the side. "What brings you here?"

"Business in Star City," Bruce replied, taking a seat. "Queen Industries."

America nodded. "Dude, Oliver Queen! He's a _very_ interesting fellow. His wife Dinah Lance is from Gotham City, too, like you. Isn't that cool? They made a really cute couple."

Bruce of course didn't ask how America knew, being aware of what he actually was. "And you?" He asked instead.

"Ah, the usual, boring financial stuff. I'm thinking of skipping it actually."

Bruce lifted an eyebrow.

"Much more productive spending the morning with you." America elaborated. It had been another decade since the last time they properly talked to each other, and something was nagging at the back America's mind. There was a small but significant difference with the man before him, that the nation couldn't quite grasp.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Bruce asked, lips quirked in a half-smile as he sipped his coffee.

America sat up straight, and abruptly he knew. Bruce was happy, for once genuinely happy, and... "You're in love." America declared, surprising himself, but understood it as an undeniable truth.

Bruce immediately flushed, a pretty shade of pink bright on his cheeks. "Why, are you jealous?"

America chuckled, amused, but he didn't pry further for a name lest he jinxed the last good thing from the Wayne heir's life. Though perhaps he was jealous, just a little, so he leaned over to reach across the table, his left hand stroking through the fine gray hair at the man's temple. Bruce Wayne could pass as his father now, physically at forty-eight, but America didn't care. He would always be his little city prince.

Later they both turned off their phones in silent agreement. The morning was beautiful and the company pleasant, and they talked over coffees and eggs.

They talked about countries and cities and regrets, the fading scar on America's left hand—no longer red and swelling and painful—the only souvenir of the last forty years. They talked about quarrels and misunderstandings and mending relationships. They talked about themselves. And finally, they talked about dragons and windmills and Superman.

Eventually their respective duties caught up on them. It was nearing noon, and Bruce rose to stand as he had always have. Leaving first whenever they met.

And now America realized that it was likely always intentional. Symbolic of some sort, of humans using their lives to push their nation ships forward sailing on the sea of time, but always leaving their nations behind. Of course Bruce would be so dramatic. This was also probably why they didn't talk about a next time, a next date, despite for once they parted on joyous terms. Because America had a feeling that one of them wouldn't be there to see it, and perhaps Bruce felt it as well. His every word sounded like a farewell and his every smile a gift most precious, leaving behind a lingering ache in the prosperous young nation's heart.

America thought of the child who cut open his arm, the teenager who put a gun to his own temple, and the man who leaped off skyscrapers again and again chasing a death just out of reach. He thought of porcelain dolls and action figures, of the child who lost his parents and the parent who lost his child. He then thought of happiness and hope, of the definitions humans gave to themselves.

Half a century playing pretend, a blink of the eye and a lifetime.

.

.

 _fin._

.

* * *

 **Author Notes**

[1] DCEU Alfred Pennyworth was originally a Wayne family bodyguard, and later Chief of Security, but never a butler. His life was difficult and extremely stressful considering his sole job was to keep the Wayne family safe, and we all knew how that turned out.

[2] Action Comics and Detective Comics DO exist within DCEU canon, so the Superman and the Gotham Bat were literally named after comicbook characters "Superman" and "Bat-Man".

[3] Two bullets: One intended for the target, one intended for himself.

[4] America's own Marie Antoinette: In _Batman v Superman_ , a photographer used the phrase "Let them eat cake" to describe Bruce Wayne, a quote commonly attributed to Marie Antoinette, French queen who continued to lead an extravagant lifestyle despite the country's financial crisis. She was executed during the French Revolution via guillotine.

[5] Nations and metahumans (love writing this part, because DCEU apparently worked extra to involve as many different countries as possible into the universe, so I get to write about lots of international interactions!)

• France and Greece: Diana of Themyscira, daughter of Zeus and demi-god of the Greek Pantheon, currently living in Paris.

• Egypt: Black Adam and Doctor Fate. Rumored to appear in _Shazam_ and cameo in _Justice League Dark_ respectively.

• Mexico: Chato Santana (El Diablo), demi-god of Aztec mythology, Mexico's inheritance from her father Aztec Empire. Incubus and Succubus (Enchantress), sun god and moon goddess of Mayan culture, Mexico's inheritance from her mother Maya Civilization.

• Canada: Chief/Napi, demi-god of Blackfoot culture, portrayed by native Canadian actor Eugene Brave Rock from the Kainai Nation reserve in Alberta.

• England and black magic: John Constantine and Jason Blood (who was bounded by Merlin with Etrigan the Demon). Rumored to appear in _Justice League Dark_.

• Iceland: Arthur Curry (Aquaman), visiting Iceland on king tides annually to bring him fish.

• Japan: Tatsu Yamashiro (Katana) with mystical soul-sealing sword, working with the American government Task Force X.

[6] India's fortune: Kryptonite. The quantity found was generally too little to use effectively as weapons, hence being "useless" dust, but other countries would still pay a huge sum for them.

[7] Kenya's anger: Nairomi was a clear reference to Nairobi, capital of Kenya, so I assumed it was intended to be a fictional location within the country of Kenya. (And yes, Kenya IS a canon hetalia character.) The incident was caused by Russian mercenary and American CIA, but both countries kept their mouths shut on the truth to keep their involvement secret so Superman ended up getting the blame.

[8] England at the state funeral: England took the death of Superman exceptionally hard, that he was shown still putting Superman's symbol in black and white all over his capital (heart) in mourning during the time of _Justice League_.

[9] America and Russia's candles: The biggest factors contributed to Superman's death were Luthor, Wayne, and Knyazev's mercenary/smuggling group. ie. Americans and Russians. For additional irony, both countries were of the few to be shown receiving unconditional help from Superman in montage.

[10] Pandora's promise: Bruce searching for ways to resurrect Superman. It must be torture for America to be consistently tempted by that impossible idea whispered directly into his mind, but everyone knew Pandora's box contained mostly of horrors and misfortune, so opening it to reach for the tiny 'hope' at the very bottom was foolishly insane.

.

 **About the story**

In the title "porcelain doll" referred to Bruce Wayne, difficult to care for and easy to break; "action figure" referred to the Gotham Bat, due to his nature as a cosmic plaything from a certain perspective. Bruce Wayne might or might not have a _type_ that happened to be superpower immortals, also throughout the story he really _did_ only touch America on his left hand.

Noted that America spent a total of one day with Bruce Wayne, NO MORE NO LESS. Midday till afternoon at 8, around dusk at 18, late evening at 28, after midnight at 38, and finally morning at 48 where they welcomed a new dawn together after a looong night. Please picture these scenes in a montage, where they spend a single day together with Bruce growing up rapidly while America stayed the same. In the end with Bruce standing up to leave, while America watched him go with a sad smile on his face.

.

.

* * *

.

 **OMAKE (aka. the reason why America would never fanboy over Superman despite being the most awesome superhero ever)**

.

America met the boy who would be Superman during the earlier days of his search around the world, only he wasn't a boy but an old _old_ man weighed down by history and pain. Then the moment was gone and the boy was a boy, and he talked with a midwestern accented American English that gave America mental whiplash. The nation kept expecting something more alien-sounding to come from the boy.

When the boy appeared in full extraterrestrial regalia as a grown man hovering over his army, America thought, of course.

Years later, the Bat told him a secret to take to his grave. The Bat talked about the existence of an alien technology labeled Codex-IV. How it carried the history of a people's language and culture and customs, belief and architectures and technological advancements, alongside information on the people's complete genetic pool. America felt a wave of nausea caused by the sudden sense of deja vu, and all that it implied.

The Codex was a biochemical miracle— _nightmare_ —created from the essence of a Kryptonian nation personification, the capital country of Krypton named Kandor.

"I believe it is in your kind's best interest," The Bat said, the corners of his lips turned in a deceitful curve. "To stay away and keep Superman safe from human hands, lest people realize they could replicate what they would inevitably learn on other more... _earthbound_ nation-beings."

America wholeheartedly agreed.

.

.

 _fin._

.


End file.
